vatheon | (no subject)

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Who: Gorthan and everyone!
Location: the Plaza.
Time: Today, during the day
Style: Prose or anything you like, really.
Status: As open as can be.

A deep, roaring voice echoed throughout the Plaza.

"ZOSTER! What is the meaning of this?!"

The newcomer - a tall duck with violet skin and a head of blond dreadlocks, clad in an elaborate turquoise robe embroidered in gold - held both of his hands at his sides, his long-nailed fingers - four on each hand - curling up as if he was itching to use them to choke somebody. Fury quickened his breath and wrinkled his features into a terrifying mask. He may have been a duck, but those within his beak were definitely teeth, and oh, how he he was gritting them. His hair and one of his best robes... were completely soaked! That simply had to be Zoster's doing. That incompetent scientist never knew how to do anything right. Truly Zartas, the Beacon, was right, when he warned that a great leader should never trust the scientist class.

"What is this?! And WHERE AM I?" he yelled one last time, before... well, before he started noticing the details about his new surroundings.

The architecture of the buildings, so similar to that of those cities he had conquered during those fateful few months not too long before. The physical traits of the passers-by, which he associated with an extremely rare (due to the planet's resistance), yet rather efficient kind of CoolFlame... And, lastly, when he finally looked up... that blue. That shade of deep blue that he could see overhead... he recognized it. It was... the very same thing that, in an instant, had convinced him to give up on the complete destruction of...

... Earth.

"I'm on Earth..." he muttered quietly to himself as he looked up, his lower beak dropping open and his blue, pupil-less eyes widening as they stared into similar blue.

... But he didn't recall any underwater cities, unless there was something his generals had neglected to tell him, which was entirely possible. "No, that cannot be." he muttered to himself again as he shook some of the water off his long hair.

Seeing somebody approach, he approached them at a solemn step, standing very straight, with his arms folded over his chest. "Excuse me. I demand to know what this place is."

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The stranger seemed calmer now. That's good. He caught a few words he didn't understand. He had a vague recollection of what a council was -- a group of people, right? -- but an Emperor? Was that the title given to the leader of their military forces? And why was he absent?

So many questions, but he kept them private, for now.

Serph's response to the question was matter-of-fact. "Serph, leader of the Embryon."

"... 'Embryon'?" Gorthan repeated.

He haughtily cast a downward look at Serph. If this young man was a leader of sorts, he certainly didn't look the part. But he could respect that. Appearances were often not to be trusted, as the great Zartas himself advised.

"How long have you been here, Serph?"

While Serph noticed the haughty look, he was unperturbed by it. Being the leader of the smallest recognised Tribe in the Junkyard meant he'd been on the receiving end of those looks more than once. But in the end, it was the smallest Tribe who had conquered the rest.

The cycle of time here was a little different from the Junkyard, but Serph instinctively knows how long it's been. His tone was still polite when he replied, "8 Days."

Not very long. Certainly not as long as others, but he didn't think it was necessary for Gorthan to know that yet.

"I see. And what can you tell me about it?"

Slowly, Gorthan seemed to be relaxing. Perhaps this young man's calmness had a contagious quality about it; perhaps Gorthan was simply, positively impressed by how not even his display of rage had not seemed to faze him.

This stranger had not yet attacked him nor anyone in the city, so Serph had no reason to react with anything except calmness. Since Gorthan was asking information about the city rather than being caught up in his rage and confusion, now was the time to pass on what he knew.

"It is peaceful, though I hear there have been times of danger."

He dug in his pockets for a brochure ~~that probably doesn't have the fairy information any more, since they all exploded recently~~ that was neatly folded several times to fit. He unfolded it so the front could be seen before he held it out for Gorthan.

"I was given this information booklet when I arrived."

Gorthan had to gather his dreadlocks in his hands and wring some water out of them to keep water from dripping onto the brochure that Serph was offering. Even such a gesture, when performed by him, had an elegant, refined quality about it.

Once he was done, he read quickly, his scanning blue eyes narrowing at every line. "... So it is like R'ur Kil, indeed, in many respects... I would not be surprised to learn that the people who are transported this place are all being experimented on." Turning his gaze away from the booklet, he glared scornfully at the sea above them.

"In which case... whoever is behind this will learn that Gorthan, the Warrior King, knows no mercy!"

If Serph was anyone else, he probably would've offered Gorthan a towel to dry off. But being soaking wet used to be a normal thing for Serph, so it didn't strike him to offer.

... Is that another title? But Gorthan had brought up something Serph hadn't considered. An experiment... Serph wasn't entirely certain what it meant -- experiments were carried out to further knowledge, weren't they? -- but it didn't strike him as something inherently bad.

Thoughts for another time. Addressing Gorthan again, he asked without any preamble, "What are you?"

He asked, not only to distract Gorthan, but because he had never seen a demon like him before.

He sighed in frustration as he handled the booklet back to Serph. "I'm an Evronian, earthling. But I suppose that news of the time when I had all of Earth in my hands has not reached your place of origin."

He walked to the closest branch of coral, inspecting it with an odd expression, between curiosity and disdain.

"We are a proud race of conquerors, and the mere mention of our name awakens terror throughout the galaxies, terror which we feed on in order to spread even more terror, in a never-ending spiral of fear..."

He sighed. "... Or at least, that is how things used to be in the time of the great Zartas, the Beacon. It is my duty to restore Evron to its past glory. Which is why I must return, and soon."

Serph took back the brochure and began refolding it while Gorthan talked. He was listening closely despite appearances, though he didn't quite understand everything Gorthan had told him.

Earthling? What was that supposed to mean? And these 'Evronians' fed on fear? He couldn't say he liked the idea of spreading terror, but his own situation led him to wonder if that was a matter of survival for them, too. Gorthan's tone suggested he took pride in it, though, and Serph couldn't approve of it. He could tolerate it -- some of his Tribe had enjoyed devouring, after all -- as long as Gorthan didn't take to scaremongering here.

Serph put the brochure back into his pocket before he asked, "Why restore Evron to its past glory? You are not Zartas."

And that would be when Serph would get an expression that not many could say to have seen on Gorthan. A smile. Definitely a smile, though a smug and confident one, deprived of any warmth.

"While I may not approach Zartas' greatness, I shall try to do so, by interpreting the many works of literature and history that he left behind. I am the Evronian leader whose rise Zartas prophesied so long ago in his very last poem - the Warrior King destined to rule all living things."

If Gorthan had known that literature and history weren't really important things in Serph's world, then maybe he wouldn't find Serph's next question shocking.

"What is a poem?"

It was a question fuelled by genuine ignorance.

Abandoning the coral, Gorthan took a couple slow steps in Serphs' direction, as his blue eyes stared at him curiously.

"... You don't know what a poem is."

Most Evronians, especially those from the lower castes, had no idea what poetry was, either. However, they were also not intelligent enough to be able to understand if it was explained to them. This Serph... was a different matter altogether. Perhaps, if Gorthan did fulfill his wish to know more, his time would not be completely wasted.

... But first, he had to make sure that this young man was truly a blank sheet.

"How do your people preserve the memory of what they used to be, then?"

Even though Gorthan was significantly taller than him, Serph didn't show any signs of backing down when the Evronian advanced towards him. His answer came easily.

"We didn't."

Five years wasn't a long time to have been living, after all. There wasn't much to create a history from.

To give Gorthan more context, Serph added, "Warfare was all we knew."

But he knew a little more since his arrival to Vatheon.

"Memory of warfare is worth preserving - perhaps even more than any other kind of memory. How else will you and your people learn from your mistakes and your past victories?"

Gorthan did not notice, of course, but he was smiling again, the corners of his beak simply turning up against his will.

"And that is one of the many functions of poetry, perhaps its most important one. Through poems, the poet expresses, in a few words, all the experience and wisdom he has gained throughout his life, so that others who will live after him, in a time that is beyond even his imagination, may learn from it."

The had always kept it in their heads. They had kept notes and projections for their Tribal war, but Serph didn't think they were a 'memory of what they used to be'.

But the description of poetry sounded nice. Though Gorthan's description had a decidedly warfare slant, Serph could see that poetry could be applied to other things. It was like... a way of remembering, wasn't it? Something a little more tangible than simply holding those they lost in his mind. Because... if he fell in combat, his memories would be lost, wouldn't they?

Argilla would like poetry.

Serph nods. "I would like to know more about this poetry."

Gorthan's smile widened. Why, it wasn't often that somebody expressed such curiosity. And he was always glad to discuss his literary studies with somebody, even if that somebody was an alien.

"Because, as I said, the poet cannot imagine the future world which his readers will inhabit, he favors the use of essential, timeless words that are able to instantly reach the very depths of any reader's mind and spirit, etching themselves into them unfailingly. And because the main function of a poem is preserving memory, its form has to be such that it will be easy for the reader to learn it by heart."

Serph closed his eyes, thinking over what he had been told.

He had no idea what Gorthan meant when he said 'essential, timeless words,' or anything about mind etching, but perhaps that would become more clear in the near future. What he did know, however, was that for something to be easy to learn, it must be short. Concise. It was easier to recall, We're comrades than the exact contents of Gale's long status reports, after all.

While Gorthan had answered the question of what a poem was and the desirable contents of one, Serph still had no idea what a poem was like.

Opening his eyes, he asked, "Do you have an example of a poem?"

Gorthan nodded with a smile and took a step back, away from Serph.

"Listen, as I recite the words of the venerable Zartas."

He cleared his throat with a soft sound before he began, his voice even deeper than his usual, each word of the brief poem spoken slowly to emphasize each sound.

And, ah... perhaps Gorthan (this Gorthan, at any rate) was not the best teacher when it came to poetry.

"Power, might,
boundless fear in the worlds we claim...
that is our essence,
that is our only aim."

...

......

Oh. That was it? ...Well, he could still tell Gorthan took pride in the poem, though Serph didn't really get it. There was a long pause as Serph absorbed those words and thought over them. He could see that the words were likely the core beliefs of the Evronians under this Zartas' leadership, but he didn't understand how those words were different from the commandment laid down by Angel:

Rend, slaughter, devour your enemies.
There is no other way to survive.
You cannot escape your hunger, Warriors of Purgatory.

Would that be considered a poem? He was sure those words had been in the minds of all the Tribe leaders. ... Though he was the only one left who had heard those words.

Finally, he asked, "Is it only the content that separates poetry from a law or commandment?"

Gorthan furrowed his brow, once again walking closer to Serph as he answered his question, his hands moving in the air in explanatory gestures.

"The power relationships involved are very different, realize. A poet speaks to his peers. Even if they may not be his peers under a social point of view, his words create a common ground between writer and reader, placing them at the same level. A law or commandment, on the other hand, is dictated from above to those who stand below. There is no discernible common ground."

Why was he having to explain something so obvious? And yet, Serph's questions did confirm that Gorthan's time was not being wasted. This alien was an intelligent, curious individual.

That made sense. So it would be like speaking to his comrades as their friend, not their leader.

Serph nodded. "Can anyone create poetry?"

Gorthan had mentioned 'poets', so...

"As long as they have something to say and the intelligence to convey it as is proper."

Gorthan had made a few poetic efforts of his own... though, of course, he was not about to share them.

"So. Do you now see how your people would benefit from poetry?"

Serph nodded. They sounded like something worth passing down. Something that would last, after their creators were long gone. He didn't know what it was like to have a history, but he'd like to see the day where there's enough peace for one.

Ah, but he'd never made a poem before. Perhaps a little guidance...? "Have you created your own poems?"

"I..."

Gorthan was not sure how to reply to that. He had never told anyone about his secret efforts. Not to mention that, now that he found himself in this strange, R'ur Kil-like place, who knew if he would ever recover his writings and notes...

He suddenly became pensive and silent once again.

"... I might have."

Hesitation? Serph didn't think there was anything difficult about his question to answer. Gorthan seemed to look up to Zartas, so perhaps he felt his own works fell short of Zartas' poetry? A poetry writing lesson be for the future, then.

With genuine sincerity in his voice, Serph said, "I would like to learn more from you another day, when you've settled in."

Digging his SFC out of his pockets, Serph held it up for Gorthan to see. "This is the Starfish Communicator. Contact me if you need help."

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warrior_king - 2012-02-02 13:31 (UTC) - Expand

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